Greenhouse Effect
by Doktor Girlfriend
Summary: Robots must be kept at room temperature and require special handling.


Title: Greenhouse Effect  
Author: Doktor Girlfriend  
Pairing/Cast: Nathan/Charles (pre-slash), Dethklok  
Rating: PG-13 (for language and half-dressed bed-sharing)  
Warnings: Hurt/comfort, barf, and half-naked Murderface  
Summary: Robots must be kept at room temperature and require special handling.  
Disclaimer: I do not own _Metalocalypse_. You can tell by the show's glaring lack of gay sex. …At least the explicit kind.  
Notes: Requested by the ever patient Rattie many ages ago, and doubling as my entry for Brutal Business' "Summer Is Brutal" theme month. Many, many thanks to Deani for her very helpful beta, as well as her suggestions for the title and summary. Seriously, lady. You're awesome.

**Greenhouse Effect**

**By Doktor Girlfriend**

"Hey, dickfashe!"

Charles closed his eyes, counting a slow, mental ten before opening them again. "I assume you are addressing me, William?"

"Who elshe?"

Charles sighed, one hand on the doorframe, glancing back over his shoulder at Murderface and forcing himself not to flinch. "What do you need?"

The bassist was splayed out upon the couch in the main room of the Dethbus, sitting low, his arms stretched out across the top and feet set wide apart on the floor, knees hanging carelessly open. He wore only his shorts and boots, and the former only remained for the pleading and threats of his bandmates. He glared at his manager, eyes squinted, sweat rolling down his squashed nose.

"It'sh hot!"

The manager sighed again, hesitating as he briefly considered just walking away. "I assure you I am quite aware of that, William."

"Sho do schomething!"

Charles cast a brief, longing look through the doorway leading to his room before turning to face Murderface and the rest of the band. Skwisgaar and Nathan were sprawled across two of the other couches, both in various states of undress. Toki and Pickles had abandoned clothes altogether and taken refuge in the hot tub, though the "hot" part was presently taken out of the equation. None looked overly pleased with their manager.

He reminded himself it wasn't entirely their fault. Tours were always stressful, making the tempers run short, especially summer tours. There was only so much time even the codependent members of Dethklok could stand to be together, and after a few weeks, even the spacious Dethbus seemed small. And the combined warmth of stage lights, black clothing, layers of face paint, and eighty degree evenings was a recipe for hell. Add to the cramped quarters and sweltering heat outdoors the fact that the air conditioning on the bus had broken down half an hour ago, and… Well, really, Charles was quite fortunate the worst that was happening was everyone was naked and glaring at him.

"Something _is_ being done." He descended the short steps from the doorway, wavering as he did, putting a hand to his temple. The heat and stress had gotten to him, as well; he had felt dizzy and lightheaded for several minutes now and was beginning to feel the first trembles of nausea. He'd been attempting to sneak away for a little lie-down when Murderface derailed him. "The maintenance crew is working on the air conditioning. They should have it operational again within the hour."

Murderface made a noise like an angry, speech-impaired cat at the word "hour". Pickles, still lounging in the now lukewarm water, took note of their manager's uncharacteristic unsteadiness, raising a pierced eyebrow.

"Dood… You doin' alright?"

It took Charles a moment to realize Pickles was addressing him. He gave his head a brief shake, trying to ignore the growing queasiness in his stomach. "Yes, I'm fine. It's just a headache."

A grunt sounded from the left wall of the room, opposite Murderface. Nathan had propped himself up on the arm of the couch and was glaring sternly at Charles. "Y'oughta sit down," he suggested in his perpetual growl, casting a look around at his lounging, largely nude bandmates. "Get outta that fuckin' suit. You'll make yourself sick…"

He trailed off into a disinterested mutter, looking resolutely away, and Charles bit back a fond smile. It was endearing in a way how Nathan veiled concern for others with gruffness and insults. God forbid anyone suspect he actually cared. He gave a quick nod, grateful to be given an excuse – indeed, almost an order – to leave.

"Yes, that's a good idea, Nathan. I think I will go to my room and do just that. If you will excuse me…" He turned quickly back toward the short steps, swallowing against the gurgling in his abdomen and the tickling in his throat, praying he made it to his room before embarrassing himself.

"Hey, wait!" Murderface's voice froze him in his tracks once more. "What about the heat?"

Charles made a fist, nails biting into his palm. "I _told_ you." He inhaled slowly, relaxing his fingers, calming his tone. "The maintenance crew is working on it."

"Well, make them work fashter!"

"Make them-?" The manager turned away from freedom a second time, nausea momentarily overcome by anger and frustration. Heat or not, Murderface was just being a dick.

"The maintenance crew assures me they are doing their best work, William," he said, unable to keep a bite of contempt from his voice. He could be a dick, too. "I cannot make them work any faster than they are capable."

"Then what're you good for?"

The silence that followed Murderface's snarl was cold enough to make Nathan believe the air conditioning had kicked back in, the chill so sudden and intense that Skwisgaar finally lifted his head in interest while Pickles breathed a low "Oh, craip…"

"What am I good for?" Despite his comparatively short frame and limbs, Charles seemed to cross the distance between the door and Murderface in less than three strides, suddenly looming over the slouching bassist. "I'm good for keeping your sorry ass alive, is what! I'm good for running your fucking multi-billion dollar empire and still having time to clean up every legal and literal mess you make before breakfast! I'm good for keeping the wolves at bay and your names out of the tabloids _and_ the obituaries! And I'm good for loosing our own wolves when the others get past the gate!"

The small man shuddered with anger, unable to stop, long repressed grievances bubbling to the surface and boiling over in the oppressive heat. It felt good, he thought dimly, letting it out. And it felt even better to direct it at Murderface, who stared up at him in slack-jawed disbelief. It was true that none of the boys were innocent of giving Charles ulcers on a weekly basis, but none of them were so openly and viciously disrespectful as the man sitting before him.

"I'm good for keeping you financially afloat, despite your greed and compulsive spending!" he continued, chest heaving. "And making sure you have $100,000 to spend on fucking Doritos every week! I'm good for-!"

…Uh-oh. He shouldn't have thought about food.

He swallowed hard, feeling his eyes bug and the color drain from his face, leaving his skin ghost grey, swaying precariously on his feet. Below him, Murderface's expression had dissolved from surprise to unease, and he shifted uncomfortably, peering skittishly up at his manager.

"Hey… You okay there… pal?"

Skwisgaar rose from his couch and slowly approached, upper half bent forward and head tilted in curiosity. "I t'inks you brokes hims…"

"You brokes Charlies?" Toki's wide blue eyes peered over the edge of the hot tub, worriedly watching the scene play out. He turned to Pickles in confusion as the drummer began tugging him back from the edge. "We's can fix him…?"

"Dood, move away. Move far away…"

There wasn't any fixing it now. Charles sank to his knees, arms cradling his lurching stomach, hearing Toki give a startled squeak and Nathan's booted feet hit the floor. But then all sound was deafened by a droning ring in his ears, his vision blurring over with white, as if the heat itself were eclipsing all his senses. And finally every remaining tatter of his dignity ran screaming as he doubled over and retched.

_"Aww, schick!"_

Charles slumped sideways to the floor, heedless of the eruption of nasal whines and Swedish profanities around him. The last thing he noticed was the tromping of large feet across the floor, the sound curiously fading as it grew closer…

When Charles awoke, it was to the blessed chill of re-circulated air. He breathed it in through his nose and let it out with a grateful sigh. His eyes blinked open slowly, trying to focus on the ceiling above him but unable to do so completely. He wasn't wearing his glasses, he realized. Automatically, he rolled onto his side, hand reaching out for the nightstand. Instead, it encountered another hand, a large, warm one, wrapping around his firmly.

Charles' head jerked up, bleary eyes making out a large mass at the edge of the bed. He squinted, discerning two points of piercing green framed by falling black at the top end of the form, which was now emitting a low rumbling sound.

"Hey…" it said. "You're awake."

"…Nathan?"

The hand holding his tightened its grip. "Yeah. What is it?"

"…You're holding my hand."

It wasn't meant as a complaint, more a half-awake utterance of the obvious, but Nathan released his hand with a flustered sort of gesture. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I thought… I dunno. …Oh. You… probably wanted this."

Charles groped at the item offered to him, slipping them on his face after identifying them. He saw Nathan clearly now, the frontman sitting in a chair pulled up beside the bedside, bare-chested and staring. Charles avoided his gaze by turning his own to the rest of his surroundings. He was back in his own room. Well, good, that was where he had intended to go. Perhaps Nathan could clear up the "how".

"What happened?" he asked, settling back against the pillows. God, it felt good to lie down.

"Oh." Nathan straightened up in his chair. "You, uh… passed out."

Charles shifted upright as well. "I did?" he inquired, though he'd already accepted it. It was the most logical explanation.

"Yeah. The doctor said it was the heat. And the stress. And you, like… working too hard all the time." Green eyes narrowed into a scowl. "I, uh, keep telling you… not to do that," he growled in reprimand, but his expression was softer than his tone, showing more concern than he'd been willing in front of the others.

"Yes, that sounds like me…" the manager mused, starting to remember bits of pieces of his little "scene" in the main room. He allowed a tiny smile to play at his mouth. "Yes, you do, Nathan. I should listen to you more often."

This was met with a firm nod. "Damn right."

The smile grew a little. "So… I passed out and, I assume, was brought back to my room for the medical staff to examine…?"

"Yup," Nathan nodded with a smile. He seemed to like having the answers for once.

"And how long have I been out?"

"Uhh… Maybe an hour."

"And…" Charles trailed off with a frown, looking down at the rest of himself for the first time since waking; his suit was gone, replaced with a clean undershirt and pajama pants. "…And did someone change my clothes?"

"Yeah. Well… the roadies did. You kinda… puked all over yourself," Nathan reminded him, leaning forward with a sheepish grin. "You were a mess. So they got your clothes off and gave you a bath. …I didn't look," he added quickly, sitting back.

The manager cleared his throat, cheeks flushing a faint pink. "Thank you, Nathan. Did you, ah… happen to notice which Klokateers they were?"

"You mean the ones that washed…? Uh, right. Yeah, uh… It was just a couple." His brow furrowed in thought. "You know, the ones that… follow you around all the time."

The bodyguards, then. That was acceptable. Charles liked to keep the people who saw him in less than dignified states (especially in the very key "less clothing" sense) to a minimum. He nodded, visibly relieved.

"Very good. Thank you, Nathan. Is there anything else I should know?"

"Well, uh… The doctor said you needed rest and to stay in bed. So… y'know… no working." Nathan raised one dark eyebrow. "You were so thinking about working right now, weren't you?"

"…Yes. Yes, I was."

The singer grinned, baring sharp canines. "Yeah, well… Too bad. You gotta listen to your boss, so lie your ass down."

Charles gave an exaggerated eye roll. "Yes, my _Lord_."

"Alright, don't get snippy. C'mon, I'll… I'll keep you company. Scoot over."

"You wha-? Oh…" Charles quickly shifted to the far side of the bed, looking away as Nathan sat on the edge to remove his jeans and boots, and then slid beneath the covers in his shorts. He didn't look back right away.

He didn't dare call attention to it, this thing happening between them, this new sense of comfort found in each others' presence, the desire to seek it out. He'd always felt closest to Nathan of all the boys; the frontman was easy to approach and converse with and had always shown their manager the most respect. In all honesty, Charles was ready to consider the singer an actual friend, something he found in short supply these days. But ever since the siege and the attempt on his life – on all their lives – things had progressed. In the months following that night, Nathan had become much more… demonstrative in his affections, and Charles had found himself quite receptive. These days it wasn't uncommon to feel a warm hand gripping his in times of stress; or to have a strong arm around his shoulders as he headed for his quarters at the end of the day; or to be awakened from a light sleep by his mattress sinking under the new weight of a large body joining him.

That was the most recent development and the most surprising. It had started the first week of this tour; Nathan had simply stumbled after his manager and into his bed one night, citing exhaustion for his unwillingness to climb the staircase to his own bed on the Dethbus and glaring in a manner that warned against arguments. And Charles, as he often did, let Nathan have his way. Every other night since had played out similarly; Charles would go to bed before the boys, and Nathan would join him when he could get away. There was no further intimacy, at least not while they were conscious. Though they gave each other plenty of space initially, they invariably woke up spooning.

And yet even with the addition of these impromptu sleepovers, they never spoke of it. By mutual unspoken agreement… Or at least Charles hoped that's what it was. Indeed, a significant factor in the manager's reluctance to mention it was the fear that it _wasn't_ mutual; that in his loneliness, he was misinterpreting socially clumsy gestures of friendship as something more; that he was fabricating the emotional tension he'd felt since the day he woke in the hospital to find Nathan asleep in the chair by the bed.

Nathan… The Klokateers had told him that it was Nathan who had rescued him from his assailant that night, Nathan who had carried him to safety. And now, recalling the approach of heavy boots as he had faded from consciousness, Charles wondered if Nathan had come to his rescue again.

"So…" Charles finally ventured, still turned away but needing to break the awkward silence that had settled. "The air conditioning is back on."

"…Oh, yeah. Yeah, they got that fixed awhile ago. I've actually been freezing… without my shirt. But I didn't wanna go back for it."

Charles started to nod absently but paused, something occurring to him. He turned to face the frontman, brow furrowed. "Wait. Nathan, how long were you sitting here?"

Nathan blinked. "Oh, uh… Whole time, I guess. Yeah…"

His answer was met by a searching stare from his manager. "Why would you do that?"

The large man shrugged, faintly uncomfortable. "I dunno. I just figured… you'd want someone here to… tell you what'd happened. And stuff… Right? And I, uh… I wanted it to be me…" He shrugged again, scowling, preparing to settle into a sulk.

Charles stared a moment longer at the dark-haired man lying beside him. Then he smiled - genuinely smiled - and shifted closer, laying a hand on Nathan's arm. "Thank you, Nathan. Very much."

Nathan met his manager's eyes, seeing the unguarded warmth and gratitude there. His scowl relaxed, and he offered the other man a crooked grin.

"Yeah, well… Shut up. And didn't I tell you to go to sleep? Pretty sure I told you… something like that…"

"Yes, my _Lord_."

"I told you to shut up, too."

Charles laughed, the sound almost foreign to his own ears, but bringing a broader grin to Nathan's face. He pulled the covers higher over both of them as Charles settled on his side, leaving his hand where it rested on Nathan's arm. They laid together in companionable silence, the only sound the soft humming of the air conditioning. Several minutes passed before Charles spoke again.

"Nathan?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't quite remember… Did I throw up on anyone besides myself?"

A deep chuckle answered him. "Oh, man… I was hoping you'd ask. Yeah, you nailed Murderface. He was so pissed I thought he'd crap himself. You splattered Skwisgaar a little, too."

Charles smiled again, his hand tightening on Nathan's arm as he pulled himself closer, resting his head on a bare shoulder. There was only a beat before he felt the arm slide under and encircle him, pulling him further into a protective embrace. He closed his eyes.

"Very good."


End file.
